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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24053071">SUCKER</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/pendragonfics/pseuds/pendragonfics'>pendragonfics</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Hawkeye (Comics), Marvel Cinematic Universe</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Deaf Clint Barton, F/M, Injured Clint Barton, Lollipops, M/M, Short &amp; Sweet, gender neutral reader</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-05-07</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-05-07</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-02 17:40:44</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>896</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24053071</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/pendragonfics/pseuds/pendragonfics</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Clint Barton is injured at work. His emergency contact is called.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Clint Barton/Reader, Clint Barton/You</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>84</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>SUCKER</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Prompt: lollypop emoji</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>How would you describe Clint Barton? An ex-high school jock with a heart? Legolas from Lord of The Rings, but human, with no powers, and short hair? An incredibly smart man with insane reflexes? That checks out, he was also wasn’t. Despite the tautology of Clint Barton, the mystery of the Hawkeye, the confusion of a man, there would be one person for him, who knew him from the inside out. The Avengers might know him as a contractually obligated ex-S.H.I.E.L.D. agent, but you?</p><p>You’re his emergency contact.</p><p>And today, this was the day when your phone rang from a private number.</p><p>“Hi, is this…?” a somewhat familiar voice spoke on the other end. “You’re the contact for Mr Barton?”</p><p>“Speaking,” you reply.</p><p>The phone wedged between your shoulder and ear. It’s your day off for work, which you’re glad - tomorrow there are two birthdays in your office, and seeing as they’re your cubicle-mates, you must make them cakes. The kitchen is a mess, the cakes finally in the oven, but you’re trying to make buttercream icing without butter or cream. It’s not what the kids these days call…a success.</p><p>“I’ll send you details for where you’re needed to come. Delete them after they’re in your GPS.” The voice on the other end responds. “Come as soon as you can.”</p><p>You put the spatula down, holding your phone properly. “Is Clint okay?”</p><p>“Just come.” The voice tells you, and then you hear the line click.</p><hr/><p><em>Those damn Avengers and their damn agendas</em>, you think irritably as you pull into the road your map told you to go. It’s almost fifty miles from the apartment, and you’re almost out of podcasts to listen to on the way. At least you’re almost there.</p><p>You come out into a clearing, and then you realise where you are. It’s that place that was on the news, back when the hot-shot Tony Stark was haled for reducing environmental impact and reusing an old building that his father had made. You had rolled your eyes at the generational wealth that had come through the Stark family, but seeing it first hand from the driver’s seat of your station wagon…it did make you wonder what it would be like to be just a little richer.</p><p>As you pull in, you’re greeted by none other than Natasha Romanov. Her hair is two shades lighter, perhaps from a recent bout of espionage, brows recently trimmed, and smile thin.</p><p>“That bad?” you ask, feeling your stomach sink. You lock the car behind you and follow her and her pumps into the building.</p><p>“He’s had worse, as you know,” she said, “I told them it was okay, but he kept asking for you, despite all the pain medication he’s been given.” She snorts a half-formed laugh. “That’s our Clint for you.”</p><p>You smile along, but don’t feel it.</p><p>She walks you through a series of hallways, through an atrium and another hallway, until you’re at a door marked as a hospice wing. She holds her hand out, and clueless for a second, you don’t know what she’s asking of you. But after a beat, you hand your phone to her.</p><p>“It’s not like I’ll tweet that this is the Avengers’ uber top super-secret base,” you plead.</p><p>Still, you give her your phone before you enter. This room looks like it was never refurbished, decorative-wise; it screams last century with its wallpaper patterns and the linoleum. But the tech is new, perhaps newer and more advanced than any hospital technology than you’ve ever seen before. There are rows of empty cots, and Natasha marches you past them until you reach one with the curtains drawn.</p><p>From inside, the not-green face of Bruce Banner appears. His lab coat blends into the white walls, but his tight, polite smile does not.</p><p>“You’re the contact?” he asks.</p><p><em>Ah</em>, you realise. <em>It was him on the phone</em>.</p><p>“Where’s Clint?” you probe. “Is he okay?”</p><p>“_________?” you hear his voice through the curtain. “You’re here!”</p><p>Stepping past Dr Banner, you push into the boundaries of the curtained-off area. On a cot, Clint lies half-propped up by pillows, his left arm lain flat to his chest with bandages. Clint looks tired, his hair a mess, and clothes all stained with grass and mud. You knew that the last mission he was on was supposed to be a doozy, but you knew he was strong.</p><p>“What happened?” you ask him, trying to sound calm. You take a seat at the vacant spot beside his head. “I’d ask what’s new, but you look the same as I last saw you,” you joke.</p><p>“They think it’s a broken arm,” he squints, smiling as wide as his teeth can bare. They sure have given him sedatives, but the goofy Clint you know is still shining through them. “I need to practice my barrel rolls.”</p><p>“Well, that’s enough for one day, yeah?” you say, leaning toward him. “Oh! I brought you something.” You reach into your pocket and take out a lollipop. It’s a swirly sucker, pure sugar but a trio of colour; white, purple and black. “Do you want it later, or now, babe?”</p><p>Clint took the candy from your hand, and deftly with his teeth and his good arm, tore off the plastic wrapper. “You’re the best spouse, like, ever.”  </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>You can find me on Tumblr on as @chaotic--lovely, and if you want to request a fic, check out <a href="https://pendragonfics.tumblr.com/request_conditions">@pendragonfics</a>! ʕ·ᴥ·ʔ✿</p></blockquote></div></div>
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